A journey with an old friend
In your lifetime, you’d meet a lot of people whom you’d address as your friend but not many of them would stick to your consciousness. Not by a long haul. As you move on, you make new acquaintances and with them, you create new circles of friendship, and continue growing old. One way to stay young is by being in touch with old friends. But then, unless you stay in the same village or town and end up dying there, it’s quite impossible to function within the same circle. People tend to move and create new bonds. It’s a natural progression and only shows how much we depend on our social skills to get by.
Anyway, this blog post isn’t about friends in general. It’s about a friend in particular. Let’s call him T.
I first met T in our neighbourhood tuition classes. We were both in sixth standard. He was a chubby kid with an impeccable hairstyle. Unlike my slightly wavy crown, his strands rested on his temple the way Ajay Devgan’s did in Pyaar To Hona Hi Tha (1998). It was the last week of December and midterm exams were to commence in two weeks. We connected instantly: he was amazed by my surprising studiousness and I was intrigued by his ability to solve mathematical problems while remaining close to a dud in other subjects. Three weeks hence, exams had ended and a new last friendship had started.
T’s parents adored me and I respected them a lot for how they behaved as a unit: they always ate together. A concept alien to my family thanks to my father working late. He often invited me to his place and we used to eat on the dastarkhwan. It was always a delight because his amma prepared food quite differently than mine: sometimes Hyderabadi and sometimes, Konkani. This was the nice side. The downside happened when T scored low in English and I accompanied him to his house. His dad politely asked me to leave and before I could step out of the house, I heard T scream. Disciplined.
During summer, we decided to learn how to swim at the public pool in Chembur. We used to reach early before 7 in the morning and I noticed that he took to water so effortlessly. As if he already knew how to swim. One more interesting memory being, he wouldn’t tire easily. His flabby self would be exhausted on land but in water, he was a different creature. Also, he could hold his breath underwater longer than most of us kids did back then.
Being a well-mannered kid with a soft voice, he could make anyone like him. My amma loved him for his gentle nature and his characteristic ‘yes’ to everything amma served him. There was never a ‘no’ to her asking him whether he’d have this or that. The answer was always in affirmative. He clearly enjoyed south Indian fare. I think he had a nose for great food. During Ramzan, he would hand me seedless dates and inform me— with the same flair that I show while sharing my useless trivia in public—that they come from Iran or some other Gulf country where his relatives worked.
I took to comedy much later in life, with the internet playing a massive role in helping me mould my sense of humour. With T, things happened differently. He used to mention the likes of Jaspal Bhatti, Umer Sharif, Mukri, and others he enjoyed listening to. Naturally, he would crack jokes and appreciated the company of those who could make him laugh. Maybe that’s why he was age agnostic in his friendship: he had friends who were not only older to him but also genuinely mature in their thinking. Well, the thing about a good friend is he develops great friendships with whomever he meets.
The year is 1998 and both of us would sneak a peek at the much-ogled mid-day mate in Mumbai’s most popular tabloid. We’d look at the skimpily-clad women and impishly chuckle looking at each other, not sure whether we were laughing at them or applauding ourselves for cracking a taboo. Anyway, he learned about the facts of life much before I did, and even ‘rumoured’ to have had a girlfriend during the fag end of school days. My understanding is, his refusal to wear the top school uniform button, covering it with his tie knot, did the trick for him. Cool vibes.
The old cat of our house, Rani, died after a brutal attack by a dog. She suffered with dignity for a few hours before sleeping forever. I went to tuition as usual and was immensely distracted by her death. T was sitting cross-legged to my left with his massive thighs—I used to practise The Rock’s people’s elbow on them—and noticed me being unusually quiet. He asked what happened. Unable to hold back tears, I said, “meri billi marr gayi.” (“My cat has died.”) Although he never had a pet, he acknowledged the loss by wrapping his arm around me.
After completing SSC (10th grade), I left for Nashik to complete a 3-year diploma course at a government polytechnic. During those years, I met him about half a dozen times. He taunted me each time for forgetting him and not keeping in touch. His nickname for my engineering ambitions was ‘bade log’ and was quite sure that I would make a fine engineer. I proved him wrong by quitting engineering college in 2007.
When my family moved to Navi Mumbai in 2005, he visited us often. So much so, my first ever PC was assembled by him. To our misfortune, the PC had many existential problems and he was left with little choice but to keep in touch. During these visits, it was always cute to see him get awkward with my pappa: he used to bow namaste out of elderly courtesy and pappa used to say hello in return. Every single time.
After quitting electronics & telecommunications, I decided to teach English to school kids (8th to 10th standards) from 2007 to 2010. The classes used to take place in Cheeta Camp, where I grew up, and where T still resided. During class breaks, I used to visit his place, have food served by his amma and sometimes, even nap on T’s bed on the ground+one room. This was such a regular happening that it amuses me (now) how I simply took the kindness of his family for granted. Like it was how it was supposed to be. Deep down, I am sure they loved me but still.
We met in 2013 in Vashi, not realizing that it was going to be the last time we’d ever meet. You connect with your old friends, not for where they are today, but for what they meant to you once upon a time. The trick is to keep connecting because time is a rascal.
By the end of 2014, it was clear that I’d be quitting entertainment journalism for corporate communication. I left for Gurgaon and that phase lasted six years, with me staying in touch with T on WhatsApp but not physical meetings. While I preferred typing long messages, he would send audio messages in his tender voice. One habit remained constant: T always started with “Sun kaminey…”
In the middle of the pandemic, missus and I moved to Mangalore with our old dog. After staying in this city for almost a year, I went to meet my parents in Navi Mumbai. T was back in Dubai and I had missed him by two weeks. Anyway, I informed him that I am keen on meeting his amma, (whom I hadn’t met in over a decade now), as well as his wife (whom I last saw at their wedding) and kids (whom I only knew by their names). After saying my goodbye, the first thing I did was message T the correct address of his own apartment. He sent his characteristic tear-eyed-laugh emojis.
The very next week, T collapsed in his office in Dubai and never got up. He was working night shifts and anybody who knew him would tell you that he was a dedicated family man, a lovely son, a faithful husband and a doting father of three wonderful kids. It took two days for his body to fly in. The funeral happened following the Friday namaaz and when we were in the cemetery, it dawned upon me that this was my first funeral featuring a childhood friend. A person I grew up learning about life, and more strikingly, somebody who not only understood the hardship of being alive but also looked forward to its bounty. None of his children are old enough to grasp their collective loss. A lot of things can prepare you for life but nothing can prepare you for death.
Over the past weekend, I returned to Mangalore and for some reason, I am already forgetting how T appeared in his grave when we were throwing dirt at his shroud. My memory of him features his mischievous smile, always on the brink of a chuckle, backed up by his warm personality. And I hope that remains so.